


Only the Next Moment

by ratherastory



Series: Old Time [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Curtain Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time stamp to my previous fic, <b>Of Old Time, Which Was Before Us</b>. Sam takes care of Dean when he's sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Next Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note #1: If you haven't read the previous story, all you need to know is that Sam has permanent damage to his median temporal lobe. He has no memories of anything that happened in the series, and is unable to form new memories. The stories are all set post-S7, but Dean never went to Purgatory.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is unlikely to become a 'verse. Don't get your hopes up. :)  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: Uh, actually, this was originally meant for [](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/profile)[**hoodie_time**](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/) 's current curtain-fic mini-challenge, and it was a prompt from [](http://jackien1968.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jackien1968.livejournal.com/)**jackien1968**. It turned out to be a fic that was a bit more about Sam with a lot of bonus sick!Dean, so I'm posting it now and I'll post the other Dean-centric stuff to the comm next week as planned. Yes, I'm writing again. I'm excited!
> 
> * * *

The phone in the kitchen is ringing. It's rung twice, no, three times. Sam should answer it, he knows he should, but there was something else he was doing and the phone is distracting him and if he picks up he might forget entirely. Dean's not picking up, though, and that means Sam needs to do it. It's an older phone, green plastic riveted to the wall with two screws, large black buttons with white numbers. He takes a breath, reaches for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Is Dean there, please?"

He hesitates, glances back at the door to the kitchen. There's no sound coming from the rest of the house. He doesn't remember if Dean's home. He should check the timetable they have set up for this, to be sure. There's no note on the whiteboard that's attached to the fridge with magnets, so either Dean is home, or he was meant to be gone and Sam should know this. He turns, absent-mindedly wrapping the phone cord around his wrist, tangling his fingers in the tight coils, flips open his binder. There's today's date—he glances at the word-a-day calendar by the phone to double-check—and he runs his finger over the page until he spots words written in red Sharpie over what's already typed out in the schedule.

_Dean's sick. 10am meds and juice or water if he'll take it. 12pm soup and toast._

"Hello?" the woman on the other end of the line sounds impatient, and Sam starts a little, because he almost forgot she was there.

"Um, yeah. Hi. No. Um, I mean, Dean can't come to the phone right now. May I take a message?"

They have a pink pad on the counter closest to the phone, with spaces for the date and time and the actual message and the phone number to call back. It's easier to remember all the questions to ask if it's right there.

"Is that Sam?"

"Yes."

"This is Jill from Dean's work. Is he going to be on shift today?"

He shakes his head at the phone. "No. No, Dean's sick. Did we call?" he asks. He can't remember if they called. It's not written down. You're supposed to call in sick for work, but maybe Dean did it, or maybe he did, and neither of them thought to write it down.

"You did yesterday. I just need to know how long we should hold off on routing calls through to him."

 _Shit. Shit_ , he doesn't know this. He doesn't remember how long Dean's been sick. It might be a day, or it could be a week, for all he knows. He swallows, tries not to let the rising panic show in his voice, and reaches for a pen.

"Can I call you back?"

Jill sighs, as though this is the biggest inconvenience of her week. "I guess."

"I need your number, please."

"You should have it." It sounds like she's chewing gum or something.

"Can you give it to me anyway? Please," he adds, carefully writing _Jill from Dean's office_ on the notepad, and the date and the time. He writes down the number she rattles off, then adds, _call back before noon to say how long until Dean is back at work._ "Okay," he tells her. "I have to check, and I'll call you back before noon."

"Fine."

She hangs up without so much as saying goodbye, and he's too relieved to have her off the phone to care that she was rude. Dean's sick, that's what's important. Dean's sick, and Sam _forgot_ , because he fucking well forgets everything these days. It's eleven o'clock, and the alarms on his phone are all set properly, which means he probably went upstairs an hour ago to check on Dean and bring him pills and juice, and he doesn't even remember that. _Fuck_. Usually he can manage better than an hour.

He opens the fridge, pulls out the water pitcher and pours a glass, checks the binder again to try to remember where Dean's pills are being kept, and goes up the stairs. He knocks quietly on the door to Dean's bedroom even though it's open, nudges it a little further with his foot. He can just make out the back of Dean's head, hair sticking out a little crazily from his head and matted with sweat. The rest of his brother is hidden under the comforter in which he's cocooned, though he can hear him breathing congestedly. Placing the glass of water on the bedside table, he leans over and carefully shakes Dean's shoulder.

"Hey, Dean."

There's an unintelligible mutter from under the bedclothes. Sam shakes him a little bit harder, and Dean comes awake with a snort and promptly folds in half in a fit of coughing. Swallowing his guilt, Sam sits on the bed next to him and rubs circles on his back until the fit stops.

"Sorry."

Dean's flushed with fever, his eyes a little unfocussed, but he pats Sam's knee and lets his brother gently pull him so he's sitting upright. He leans against Sam's shoulder, a little too out of it to realize what he's doing. There's grey at his temples, Sam realizes with a start. He didn't check the year on the calendar, has no idea how much time has passed. He should do that.

"S'up, Sammy?"

"Have some water," Sam holds the glass for him, and Dean doesn't argue, just drains it and hands it back without a word. "You took your pills, right?"

"Uh-huh. You brought 'em, remember?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. I don't—your work called."

"Hm?"

Automatically he presses the back of his fingers against Dean's forehead. "Wow, you're burning."

"Comes with the territory. We still have Tylenol, you checked it this morning."

"Lemme check my phone." Sam twists a little awkwardly to pull it out of his back pocket with his free hand. "Not for another hour. I'll bring soup, too, and toast."

"Ugh. Can we skip the toast?" Dean makes a face.

"No. I'll just forget, anyway, you may as well get used to the idea. Uh, your work called. They want to know when you'll be back. I said I'd call back."

"It's Thursday, right?"

Sam's still got his phone open, so he nods. "Yeah."

"Tell them Monday morning. Same as you told 'em yesterday."

"Did I? The woman said we called, but she didn't say what I told her. Or you told her. Did you call, or did I?"

"You did, but I was there. Was it Jill?"

"Maybe? I wrote it down. It's downstairs. I can get the paper."

"Don't bother, 's fine," Dean slides down a little in the bed until he's nestled in under Sam's arm, apparently unconcerned with how that might look, not that there's anyone here to judge. "God, I feel like shit."

"You sound like it, too," Sam winces, because that didn't sound nearly as sympathetic as he intended it. Dean snorts.

"Thanks a lot, bitch."

"No, that's—do you want more water?" He figures he can at least compensate for how much he's sucking at this by making sure his brother stays hydrated, but Dean just reaches up to pat his chest.

"'m good like this. It's cold in here."

"No, it's not. You're just running a fever."

"Whatever. You're warm." Dean's already drowsing, one hand draped loosely over Sam's waist. "Like a hot water bottle."

"Uh, sure. Okay. Hey, Dean, how old are you?"

"Age is a social construct, Sammy," Dean mutters into his shirt.

"No it's not. That's ridiculous. Anyway, I don't know what year it is."

Dean just turns his head aside to cough. "It's not important, Sammy."

Sam huffs in exasperation. "Of course it's important!"

"Doesn't change anything. You gonna let me sleep, or what? Hold still and stop talking," Dean jabs him pointedly in the side with his index finger, and Sam squirms and subsides.

"Fine. I'll just look it up later."

"If you remember."

Sam is already programming a reminder to call Jill—if that's who it was—into his phone. He pauses, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then shrugs and decides not to bother with the reminder to look up the year. Dean's right, it won't change anything to know what year it is, to know that the gaping void in his life is getting bigger and bigger with every passing day. It won't help to worry about the day when Dean won't be there anymore, and he won't even remember why not. It won't change anything, he tells himself, feeling his stomach clench a little anyway at the thought.

He puts the phone down on the bedside table, wraps his other arm around his brother, and waits for the telltale signs that will let him know when his brother has finally fallen asleep. It doesn't matter, it won't change anything, he tells himself again. All that matters is that they're both here, right now, and Dean is going to be fine. Whatever happens in the next moment, he'll deal with it then.


End file.
